


maybe you're the (girl of my dreams)

by crowdyke, Toucanna



Series: the four times casey and izzie almost have sex and the one time they do [6]
Category: Atypical (TV 2017)
Genre: Breakup (?), F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Lots of Soft, Porn With Plot, There's a gay coach crowley, Twizzlers, not really - Freeform, plenty of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowdyke/pseuds/crowdyke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toucanna/pseuds/Toucanna
Summary: Casey nods then presses their foreheads together. “I Casey, forehead promise, you, Izzie, that…” She pauses, and Izzie watches her curiously. Leaning in closer, so their lips are nearly touching, Casey’s devilish grin returns.“... Is it obvious I just made this up?”“Oh, fuck you.”Casey and Izzie finally get their night together.
Relationships: Casey Gardner/Izzie
Series: the four times casey and izzie almost have sex and the one time they do [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553503
Comments: 13
Kudos: 358





	maybe you're the (girl of my dreams)

**Author's Note:**

> helloooo everybody! first things first...........we're sorry it took this long. But like, also, we're busy people with busy lives, so we're not that sorry. We didn't feel right about posting something we weren't 100% passionate about, so it did indeed take a long time, but I hope you guys are happy with the result. We sure are. This was a pretty solidly joint effort between Anna and I but keep a lookout for shifts in style, if u can spot em. Anyhow, without further ado....four times they didn't, and finally, the one time they did. Enjoy.

Izzie was _so_ close. 

She was so close to going home. Track practice was over, she didn’t have to change, and she was just going to hop on the bus to get home. But she didn’t. Instead, she walked directly into the locker room with no plan. Certainly she wasn’t expecting for _that_ to happen. The screaming match or what followed.

What followed. 

If she focuses hard enough, she can feel the thin polyester of Casey’s shorts against her fingers. Not that she’s trying to do so. 

_Oh my god, oh my god, oh my—_

Nope. Shutting that down. 

Izzie’s soaked. Because it’s raining. Just to clarify. The moment she stepped outside of the locker room, the clouds were frothing with something angry and dark that hadn’t been there during practice. 

She remembers, suddenly, an afternoon she’d spent at the Gardeners’ house. Casey hadn’t even been home, but Izzie had needed a moment of normalcy, or whatever variation upon that theme the Gardeners could offer. She’d been getting ready to leave when cracks of thunder began to split the sky. 

“You’re not taking the bus in this. It could flip over on the highway! I can’t have that on my conscience,” Elsa fussed. Several minutes later, and she and Elsa were enjoying mugs of tea in the sunroom as rain gushed down the windows. Sam had poked his head around the corner, eager to explain the weather occurrence. 

“It’s a multi-celled summer thunderstorm,” He’d said. “They happen when it’s been hot and stuffy all day and then the air pressure suddenly tanks. It’s like if you overfilled a balloon and then it pops.” 

“Does Antarctica get many of them?” Izzie’d asked, genuinely interested. 

Sam chuckled. “Of course not. That would be ridiculous. Most thunderstorms form in temperate latitudes with more mild climates.” He retreated back to the kitchen, having then decided the conversation was over.

Elsa clasped her mug tighter, inhaling a long breath of steam rising from the tea. 

“My mom always said thunderstorms were like God’s way of clearing his system. A breath of fresh air,” Elsa had said, reaching an arm around Izzie’s shoulder and giving her a squeeze. Izzie leaned into it. “I don’t really know about the whole higher power thing, but I think we could all use a good thunderstorm every once in a while.” Izzie took a sip of her tea, safe from the storm’s teeth in the warm embrace of the Gardener home. 

That seemed so long ago. 

There’s a crack of lightning and Izzie cranes her face toward the sky. Fat droplets of water careen towards the ground, first one by one and then in sheets. Within moments, rain is streaming down her face, soaking through her hair and leaving Izzie feeling like a literal mop of sadness. 

She checks her phone. The bus is 20 minutes late. 

Of course. 

The bus stop is uncovered and benchless, and Izzie is left standing there rather pathetically as her clothes are drenched through. She can’t stop thinking about the locker room, the blowout argument, the _I want you to be my girlfriend—_

Nope. Redirecting. 

Desperately trying to find something physical to focus on, she shifts her attention to her feet, which are wet. Unpleasantly wet. 

_Unpleasantly we—_

Dammit.

The rain seems to lighten up just as the bus screeches up to the curb. Figures. At least it gives her something to do. She rehearses the steps in her head: Climb onto the bus. Give the driver change. Sit in the back, hopefully by a window, so she can rest her eyes for a second before turning her attention to the chaos that is her household. Ignore the creepy guy that is somehow always riding the bus when she is. Worry about what they’re eating for dinner. Wonder if the baby had a good nap today.

These worries are easy, familiar. The persistent scratch of a tag on a well-worn piece of clothing. Something to focus on. 

The fluorescent lights lining the bus ceiling flicker. And like that, she’s violently transported back to the scene. The harsh glare is their key light, outlining the dimensions of Casey’s face. Her neck, strained and flushed. If Casey hadn’t said something, would she have kept going? Would she have let it happen like that? Is that really who she is? 

Izzie sees herself in the backseat of Casey’s car, nervously biting her lip. She sees her and Casey in the closet at the wedding. She remembers _those_ texts, that day at the mall. Her fingers pulling at the band of Casey’s shorts, not even an hour ago. 

_I wouldn’t mind if there were candles. That’s all._

“Hey, kid!” The bus driver rasps, an annoyed twinge to his smoker’s voice. “We’re at ya stop.”

Izzie jerks her head up to see him glaring at her over his thick-rimmed glasses. He nods in the direction of the open bus doors. She looks out and spots the familiar outline of her apartment building down the road, confirming they have indeed reached her destination. 

She hurries off the bus with a sincere but muttered apology. The bus driver merely rolls his eyes as he pulls the door closed. “See ya tomorrow.” 

Despite the summer humidity, she begins to shiver. It’s getting dark, and she’s only wearing her track uniform, which is already soaked through. She hustles to her front door, knowing she just needs to make it to her room to throw on a comfortable sweater and sweats so she can sink into her bed and forget this whole day happened. 

She slides her key in the door and turns the finicky lock with a practiced jiggle. The moment the door swings open she’s confronted with the scowl of her mother, exhausted face of her little brother, and the wailing of the baby from the other room. 

“Where have you been?” Her mother picks lightly at the skin on her arm. “You’re usually on the earlier bus.” 

Carter looks at the floor, and Izzie can instantly tell it’s been a bad day. Guilt sucker punches her in the stomach. She takes a deep breath and puts on her brave face. 

“I was at track,” she answers, pushing past the two of them. Layla sits unbothered on the couch, consumed by some Disney Channel Original. Izzie gives her an affectionate tap on the head, and she barely even acknowledges her. 

Her mom follows after her, Carter trailing behind like a lost puppy, “No one’s eaten dinner, and Amelia’s crying because of the storm.” 

Izzie clenches her fists, then bites the inside of her mouth hard enough to taste blood. “You have two arms. You can operate a stove. Cook something.” She struts into the kitchen and whips open one of their cabinets, chucking a cardboard box of Hamburger Helper onto the counter. 

“There you go. I’m going to change.” 

Carter winces. “Izzie…”

Bloodshot eyes wide in surprise, her mom places her hands on her hips. “Are you seriously giving me an attitude right now?” 

Izzie gaze bores into the wall. She inhales without taking in an ounce of oxygen, turning her head away and closing her eyes for several seconds. The tension fizzles out of her body like she’s a human faulty firecracker. Izzie visibly slackens, eyes glazing over. She turns back to her mother and something drops in the pit of her stomach. 

“No,” She says, voice heavy with tiredness more than anything. “No. I’m not.” Satisfied, her mom grunts slightly before departing from the kitchen. Izzie stands there for a moment, dripping onto the linoleum. She presses her hands to her forehead before heaving a skillet onto the stove. As she moves around the kitchen, her damp socks squeak pathetically on the vinyl floors. Rotely, she completes the steps of the meal, her stomach flipping into knots when the thick aroma of browning hamburger reaches her nostrils. It’s all she can do to keep from retching. She won’t be eating tonight.

When the mixture has to simmer for 20 minutes, Izzie’s brave enough to check her phone for the first time in hours. Her lockscreen is entirely obscured with texts from Casey. 

[ _fig newton 🍆, 6:47 pm_ ] Izzie I know you probably don’t want to talk to me now and I know you wouldn’t pick up if I called so I’m just going to say it here 

[ _fig newton 🍆, 6:47 pm_ ] You know how I feel about you. I think I’ve made it abundantly clear. But it’s also abundantly clear you don’t know what you’re feeling. Or maybe you do.I don’t know because every few weeks you 180 and I don’t know what’s happening. This means so much to me but what happened today really fucking hurt and I don’t want to be hurt. That isn’t what a relationship should be.

[ _fig newton 🍆, 6:48 pm_ ] I don’t really know where we go from here. That’s up to you. I’m around to talk if you want to talk but if you don’t

[ _fig newton 🍆, 6:48 pm_ ] I guess I’ll see you at track

A concentrated ringing fills her ears and suddenly the light over the stove seems far, far too bright. Izzie shuts down her phone. The next ten minutes pass in a haze. She finishes cooking dinner and slops fat scoops of the casserole into plastic bowls. Sheer force of habit guides her hands, as she places a red spoon for Carter, a Paw Patrol spoon for Layla, and a fork for her mother in the dishes. Izzie fixes a bottle of formula for Amelia and leaves it on the counter. 

“Dinner,” Izzie manages to say as she deposits the meals on the coffee table before wandering blankly into the room she shares with her two sisters. 

Layla digs into her delicious goop, eyes still glued to the television from the table. Her mother grabs the formula and props Amelia on her lap. Carter watches Izzie disappear with concern weighing heavy on his brow. The adult expression is painfully disproportionate to his chubby adolescent cheeks. 

“Thanks,” he calls, but it falls idly against Izzie’s already closed door. 

Once inside the room, Izzie stands for a moment without turning on the light, breathing heavily in the center of the rug. She takes it all in: the floor strewn about with clothes, both Izzie’s and Layla’s, the twin beds messy and unmade. Several dresser drawers yawn lazily, their contents stuffed full and spilling out over the edge. The window is wide open. Its gaping maw seems to beg for a breeze from the stiff night air while the rain-soaked glass glitters in streetlight. Izzie realizes that the air conditioning must be broken again— _great_ —and all of a sudden, the room becomes unbearably stuffy. She snaps from her detachment and begins to undress.

Izzie tears off her still-damp tracksuit. Freed of her sodden clothing, she begins to shiver, her skin contracting into goosebumps. She reaches hurriedly into her drawer for a well-loved pair of raggedy sweatpants and a random sweatshirt, yanking them onto her body. The fleecy material of the pants catches against her scraped-up kneecap and Izzie grimaces in pain. Cupping her knee gently, she rocks back and forth, blinking hard in a desperate attempt to maintain her composure. Angrily, Izzie pulls on the other leg. No crying, no thinking about the locker room. No crying, no thinking about Casey. No crying. No thinking. 

No crying.

The sweatshirt goes on next. As she tugs it over her head, she takes a deep breath, then freezes in place. 

This is not hers. 

Casey’s scent clings to the fabric. What would have once comforted her is now a sickening aroma. She tears it off, and it feels like each thread is laced with glass, slicing against her flesh. It lands across the room, and she hopes the distance will provide temporary relief, but her arms are still crawling. The sweatshirt lies, limp and defeated, in the corner, its “Dom’s Pizza” logo crumpled and worn.

Unsure of how to assuage the tremors creeping up her shoulders, she digs her nails deep into her skin. 

She stands there for a long time, shivering and shirtless in the dark of her childhood bedroom. 

Eventually, Izzie hears the muffled sound of Layla brushing her teeth and snaps out of her daze. One last, intense tremor passes through her body before she is finally able to reach for a different sweatshirt and gingerly clothe her torso. A creak sounds behind her and Izzie turns in time to see Layla poking her head around the door. Izzie feels herself slipping into her motherly role as one pulls on a pair of tattered, too-tight shoes. 

“Headin’ to bed, girlie?” Izzie musters a smile, opening her arms for a hug. 

“Only cuz Momma said so,” Layla yawns, entering Izzie’s outstretched arms. She only reaches up to Izzie’s tummy, squeezing her older sister as tightly as she can. 

“Sweet dreams, lil one,” She murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Izzie closes the door behind her, eyes squinting in the warm incandescence of the hallway light. She enters the living room to find Carter still on the couch, her mother nowhere to be found. He’s glued to the TV, having requisitioned it for the purpose of watching a European soccer game. A crusty and empty casserole bowl sits on the coffee table in front of him. Izzie walks behind the couch and taps his head.

“Beddie-bye time, little bro,” She says, sing-songy and waving her hand in front of his face. “You wouldn’t want to be too tired for your game tomorrow.”

“This is _basically_ studying,” Carter protests, dodging side to side to see around her hand. 

“Nice try.” 

“ _What_ everrrr,” He groans, but stands up anyway. Ordinarily, he might give her a harder time about this, but Carter senses that Izzie’s had some kind of shitty day. So he listens. He even grabs his casserole bowl and takes it to the kitchen on his way out. 

Izzie almost lets him go—she’s so tired—but she musters the effort to call after him as he disappears into the hallway. 

“I love you,” Izzie says to Carter’s back. She is answered with a brief grunt and it’s enough. 

She sits in silence in the living room for several minutes, listening to the creaks and groans of the apartment. Two neighbors argue loudly down the street below. With every passing moment, she can feel herself melting deeper into the couch, the thick humidity cementing the air around her. Suddenly, she hears the lock in the door jiggle. Her mother steps through the door frame, cradling Amelia, fast asleep, in her arms. Izzie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Don’t look so surprised.” Her mother tries to snap, but her words lack bite. They just sound tired. Izzie’s shoulders, tensed in anticipation of yet another confrontation, relax back into the couch cushion. 

“Scootch over.” 

Izzie kicks her legs down off the couch, this time containing her surprise. She hasn’t relaxed around her mother in months, let alone sit on the sofa next to her. Her mom lowers herself down gingerly, still cradling the sleeping Amelia in her arms. The three of them sit like that, quietly, for longer than Izzie can explain. Time seems to slow into a thick stew, stirring gently in circles rather than passing in a linear fashion. 

At a point, her mother shifts Amelia in her arms, grunting slightly with the effort. 

“Here,” Izzie says suddenly, surprising even herself. “Let me take her.” Her mother passes over the baby without protest, then immediately reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the side table. The crack of the lighter emanates from her cupped palms, a plume of smoke issuing gratefully from her pursed mouth moments later.

“Why do you do that? Around the baby?” Izzie grunts, angry with her but too tired to really fight it. Her mother’s eyes widen. The statement is enough to give her pause, and the lit cigarette dangles gently from her fingers. Her mouth opens—she starts to speak—she stops.

“I don’t know,” Her mother admits, looking Izzie in the eye. “I shouldn’t. I don’t know.”

“You didn’t used to,” Izzie points out. “You didn’t smoke around Carter. There was a time when you didn’t. You don’t have to now.” A beat.

“I guess I used to be better at trying harder.” She examines the glowing cigarette between her fingers. “The older you get, the easier it is to be okay with failure.” She takes a long draw, cheeks sucking inward. Then, contemplatively, she stubs it out. “Do you think I’m a failure?”

Izzie pauses, thinks. “I dunno. Maybe,” Izzie says honestly. She can’t meet her mother in the eye.

“You’re a better mom than I ever was.”

“I shouldn’t have to be.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” She shakes her head, something catching in her throat. “You shouldn’t. You’re right.”

That sits there between them for a moment, Amelia still sleeping soundly on Izzie’s shoulder. Izzie refuses to say anything, and instead allows the tense and bitter silence to continue. Her mother owes her whatever she is going to say next.

“I regret myself, every day. I never wanted this. I wanted to be more...I wanted to be more for Amelia. I thought I could try again, be better this time...get to work every day, keep my head down.” She looks around the messy living room, then kicks a dirty jersey wilted on the floor with her foot. “Go to Carter’s fucking soccer games, you know. That kind of thing.” She takes a deep breath, fingers clearly itching to light another cigarette. 

“What about me, Mom?” Izzie clenches her jaw and every muscle in her fact, choking the words out. She can’t remember the last time her mother watched her run, picked her up from school, drove her to a friend’s house. It stings to think about. “Have you ever tried to be better for me?” 

“I didn’t say try. I said want.”

“ _Want_ doesn’t pay our fucking bills.”

“Watch your mouth—”

“You don’t get to tell me to watch my mouth.” Izzie’s voice is low and full of anger. Tears stream silently down her cheeks, her body shaking with the soundless effort to keep her features locked into a frozen mask. Her face is so hot it feels as though the tears might steam off on contact. “You can tell me to watch my mouth when you decide to be _my_ mother again. When you decide to try.” Amelia babbles in her sleep, startling the both of them. When it’s clear she hasn’t awoken, Izzie looks back to her mother. She’s shocked to see tears welling in her eyes, too.

“I want to.”

“I don’t care if you fucking _want to—_ ”

“—No, Izzie.” Her mother interrupts, her voice thick and heavy. “I want to _try._ ” 

Izzie pauses, sniffling. She bluntly wipes away a tear. Wordlessly, her mother passes her a tissue from the box on the side table. She offers it to Izzie with softness in her eyes. Like a mom. 

The tissue hangs there in space between the two of them for a moment, framed by their bodies. Hesitantly, slowly, Izzie takes it. It’s small. It’s almost nothing. But it’s enough. 

“I’m sorry, Izz. I am. Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll take the kids to Grandma’s. You can stay here, if you want. I know it’s closer to your school.” She curls her fingers into a fist, nails scratching at the upholstery. 

The softness in Izzie’s face melts away. 

“And what will _you_ do?” 

Her mother scratches the couch again. “I’ll… I’ll--” 

Izzie scoffs. “Typical.” Her cheeks burn hot as she swiftly turns toward the wall, holding her sister tight in an attempt to ground herself. Silence hangs between them with the exception of Amelia’s quiet snores. Izzie affectionately runs her fingers through her tuft of dark hair. Amelia snuggles deeper into Izzie’s neck. An innocent gesture that fills her with warmth. It’s almost ironic her mother had created something so beautiful. 

The sound of the lighter burning against a cigarette brings her out of her trance. Izzie shoots her head back in the direction of her mother, who lets out a billow of smoke between her lips, sighing and sinking into the sofa. 

She stands abruptly, Amelia in tow. “I’m putting her to bed then I’m going to get some air.” 

Running her opposite hand through her stringy and graying locks, Izzie’s mom nods. She takes another hit. “Okay.”

Izzie stalks to Carter’s bedroom. A blue glow emits from under the closed door, and the muffle of the FIFA digital audience. She shoves it open with her free hand. Carter is immersed in his game, tongue poked out in concentration as he aggressively slams the buttons on the controller. He doesn’t even notice Izzie trudge over and yank the plug on the TV until it’s too late. 

“Hey—”

“ _Shh.”_ Izzie cuts him off, pointing a finger at the sleeping Amelia in her arms. Carter shuts his mouth. 

Izzie moves to a whisper. “I thought I told you to go to bed.”

Carter scoffs. “I wasn’t tired.”

“You have your game tomorrow.”

He looks away from her. “I don’t care about that.” 

“But you’re--” She takes a deep breath, lowering her voice again. “But you’re starting. Go to sleep. Stop being so immature.”

“Stop acting like my mom then,” he snarls. Izzie takes a step back, and it’s as if his words physically wounded her. She feels the tears hot and sharp pricking the corner of her eyes. They fall into a tense silence, almost a standoff. Wind flies in from the open window above Carter’s bed, and Amelia shivers in her sleep. Out of habit, Izzie goes to close it, which proves a little difficult with a baby in your arm. 

“Stop. I got it.” Carter pushes past her to finish the job. He softly closes it, careful to make as little noise as possible. It’s an unspoken olive branch, and Izzie appreciates it. 

When he’s done, he shuffles his feet, unable to meet her gaze. “I can put Amelia to bed, you know. You go on your walk.”

Izzie touches his shoulder then hands him the baby, gratefully. This isn’t the first time they’ve had an argument like this, and it won’t be the last. She turns to leave, but he stops her. 

“You need your time too. To be a kid. It doesn’t always have to be you, okay?” His eyes are wide and earnest. They lack the childish glint of a 12-year-old and, instead, have taken on a sort of weariness only familiar to those much older and with much more responsibility. It pains her to watch him have the same fate as her. It’s why she pushes herself to shield them all from it. To give them a better childhood than she had because, quite frankly, she didn’t really have one at all. She knows he’s right, that they can share the responsibility, but there is still a part of her left feeling incredibly selfish. 

But, maybe being selfish every once in a while isn’t so bad. 

Maybe.

Carter holds Amelia close, kissing her forehead. After a moment, he looks up, surprised Izzie is still standing there. 

“Aren’t you gonna go? Don’t forget you’re driving me to my game so you can’t stay up late either.” He grins, and she feels whole again. 

“I’ll wake you up at 7:00. Not a minute later.” 

They head for the door at the same time, him bearing left as she bears right. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Have fun with your girlfriend.” 

Blush burning her cheeks, she goes to swat at him, but he’s already disappearing into the bedroom she shares with her two sisters. She shakes her head and makes her way to the front door. She takes a second to breathe before opening it and slipping away into the night. 

...

Puddles of rainwater gleam and glare under the orange streetlights as Izzie carefully sidesteps them. The night air feels warm, and now that she’s dried off, she finds humidity vaguely comforting. It wraps itself around her like a thick blanket as she walks through her neighborhood, pacing familiar sidewalks with a bizarrely relaxed stride. This context isn’t unusual. Izzie, fresh out of an argument with her mother and brother, trying to satiate her instinct to run away—just an average Friday night.

Izzie doesn’t think—she only listens. Cars roll past. Crickets chirp. Children squeal through an apartment window. She feels undeniably, unmistakably present now, a dramatic shift from the dissociated stupor of hardly an hour before. She is deliciously aware of the sting of her scraped up knees, relishing the bite with every step. Her feet carry her through the neighborhood streets until she realizes that she’s arrived at a busy corner. A gas station gleams fluorescently like a beacon through the summer night and the slightest of smiles pulls itself to Izzie’s cheeks. A haven.

_Riiiiiing!_ The door chimes brightly as she enters the convenience store. 

“Well hiya, Izzie!” The manager stands behind the counter, grinning widely. 

“Dave! How’s it goin’?” Izzie can’t help herself but smile back. 

“Alright, alright...how’re the kids? How ya doin’?” 

“Well, y’know...I think we’re taking them to my grandma’s tomorrow. Gonna figure things out from there, that kind of thing.” Izzie averts her glance, clearing her throat slightly. 

Dave nods, brow furrowing. “Need your job back, kiddo? You know we’ve always got hours for you if you need ‘em...”

Izzie shakes her head. “When summer rolls around, though, probably. Got track right now.” Her heart pangs, remembering what happened at practice.

“Hey, track! Yeah, I’d forgotten about that. How’s it goin’? You’re up at that fancy-schmancy prep school, right?” 

“Clayton, yeah. It’s going alright. Took sort of a nasty fall at practice today, though.” She grimaces slightly, flexing her legs. “Actually, I came here to pick up some bandages, that kinda thing. We’re all out at the house. I think Carter steals ‘em all for soccer.”

“Gotcha. Well, you get what ya need, lemme know when you’re ready to check out.” Dave offers another smile before busying himself behind the counter.

Izzie turns down the short aisles, scanning the familiar shelves for large bandaids and generic Neosporin. The boxes are hollow and light in her hands and she clutches them tightly, adding up the prices in her head. She continues down the rows of products, snack foods shelved a yard away from condoms and nail clippers. Suddenly, Izzie spies something in the corner of her eye that makes her smile ever so slightly. 

Twizzlers. Her _favorite_ candy. 

Before she’s even realized it, Izzie has piled her arms full of licorice, emptying the shelf. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing. It’s comfort food, she supposes, halfheartedly trying to justify the eleven dollars worth of candy in her arms. Sighting some Red Vines, she rearranges her stash to reach for another package when—

“Izzie?”

Coach Crowley is staring at her quizzically, one hand clutching that of a much, much smaller human being. A little girl. 

“I hope that’s not your diet for the season,” She quips, eying the armful of licorice. 

“Coach Crowley?” Izzie says, rather dumbly. 

“Ooh, good eye,” Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up, then soften. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“It’s a store. I’m here to exchange money for goods and/or services,” Crowley remarks dryly. She pauses, though, and softens, glancing at the toddler attached to her side. “Naw, I’m here to cuz it’s a Friday night,” Her face scrunches up warmly as she gazes at her daughter. “And Bee and I are here to pick up Mum her surprise candy!” She coos, nudging at the little girl. “Go on, Momma’s talking right now.”

“What do you mean, Coach?” Izzie asks, synapses firing rapidly trying to put the whole situation together. She knew Crowley was married—she’d seen the ring—but didn’t know about a daughter.

“Aw, Bee and I—Bianca, that’s this little one, she’s my youngest—every Friday we like to pick out a different candy for my wife. She works a late shift at the hospital but likes to have munchies for when she gets back. She’s a bit of a candy connoisseur. ” Crowley winks at her daughter, who has selected some of the very same Red Vines that Izzie had been eyeing. “Plus, y’know, Bee doesn’t really much like to go to bed when her Mum’s not home. So this is our Friday night. Very exciting, I know.”

“I’ve never seen you in here before,” Izzie says, slightly choked up and trying like hell not to let it show. _My wife_ . _My youngest_. Crowley was—well, she was like Izzie. And she had a family. A spouse, a daughter, a job, a place to live. Izzie could feel her heart swelling in her chest, almost bursting through her ribcage with a feeling she couldn’t name. 

“Well, we live a ways out, not really from this part of town. My wife likes a bit more space.” Crowley drawls, elaborating in the way only teachers can when removed from the school environment. She was bright, relaxed—a whole different coach. “But, you know, we’d exhausted the MiniMarts and gas stations closer to our house, so, figured we’d come by and see if there were some snacks at this place we hadn’t tried yet.”

“That’s—that’s nice.” Izzie coughs suddenly, trying to clear the lump in her throat. 

“Anyway, kiddo, what are you up to tonight? Seemed like you were having a rough go of it at practice,” Crowley says, her tone shifting into one of concern. 

Izzie stares at her feet, shaking her head, suddenly bashful. “Naw, it wasn’t—it was nothing. Just some...just got some stuff.”

“Some stuff, huh? With Gardener?”

Izzie startles. “How did you—”

“None of you guys are as slick as you think, you know that? Anyway, I spend _way_ too many hours of my life with teenage girls. I know ‘stuff’ when I see it.”

A moment. A pause. Izzie scuffs are the floor. “I’m not really sure what I should do, Coach. I messed things up with her. I don’t want it to hurt the team, or...” She trails off. 

“My opinion, Izz?” Crowley meets her eyes intently, pausing for a moment. She glances off into the corner of the store, then flicks her gaze back to her daughter, now busied with her mother’s purse. She breathes out a heavy sigh. “Sorry goes a long way.”

Izzie cracks a smile. “‘Sorry’, Coach? That’s it?” 

“Listen, ask Wanda, I’ve never—well, words aren’t really my thing.” Crowley’s eyes twinkle as though remembering something humorous, and she chuckles. “But, hey, a good sorry—” she gestures to the Twizzlers— “And some candy...it really can’t hurt.” 

Izzie immediately files the name _Wanda_ away under _Crowley’s Wife Information_ , a rapidly growing sub-folder of _Crowley Information_ in her brain. She also somewhat bemusedly recalls that they are, indeed, having a conversation about Izzie’s love life in the candy/over-the-counter medicine aisle of her neighborhood convenience store, and that her old, well-meaning boss is, indeed, periodically remembering that he’s pretending to be doing something so that he doesn’t look like he’s quite-so-obviously eavesdropping, ten feet away.

Izzie feels suddenly, overwhelmingly cared for. 

“Coach, I’ve—I think there’s something I still gotta do tonight, but...it was really good talking to you. Really good.” She smiles at Crowley, unsure how to break the conversation off, and awkwardly makes her way over to the counter where Dave hurriedly pretends like he heard none of that exchange and rings up her items. It’s four packages of Twizzlers—the big ones—plus the bandaids and Neosporin. As the total lights up green and breaks double-digits, Izzie winces. Dave meets her eyes apologetically. 

“Go on, then,” Izzie hears Crowley’s voice behind her, then sees a tiny hand reaching up to drop a bag of Red Vines onto the counter. Bee stands on her tippy-toes, grinning up at Izzie as Crowley interrupts the transaction. “We’re together.”

“Coach—”

“I got it, girlie,” Crowley says, raising her left hand hand to silence Izzie’s protests and her right to slide a credit card over to Dave. 

“But—”

“Nuh-uh. I won’t hear none of it.” 

“Thanks, Coach,” Izzie says, blinking her eyes hard as they sting with tears for the umpteenth time tonight. This time, though, they feel different. They feel gentle, soft.

Crowley, slightly nervous and unsure at the sight of the almost-tears, claps Izzie awkwardly on the shoulder. She coughs, clearing her throat.

“Now, go on and fix up that busted knee of yours so you can run at my practice on Monday. And for God’s sakes, go get your girl.” 

…

Casey doesn’t want to be a stereotype for a teenager post-breakup. However, as she sits on the floor of her room, curled in a ball, listening to Mitski, she realizes that she has indeed become the poster child. 

“I don’t need thuhhhh world to seeeee that I’ve been the best I can beee,” Casey mumbles into a pillow, voice muffled by the thick cotton. “I don’t think I could stand toooooo beeeeee, where you don’t—”

“CASE!” There’s a sharp banging at her door. “Would you turn that garbage down?” Doug’s voice thumps through the wall, equal parts exasperated and disgruntled. Casey pauses the music begrudgingly. 

“Do we have any more salmon patties?” Casey wails, limbs flinging the pillow off of her face with abandon.

“No,” he calls back. 

This is somehow the worst news Casey has heard all day. She groans loudly and sinks deeper into her pillow.

A pause from the other side of the door, then a loud sigh. “I can run to the store and get some ice cream if you want.” 

“Mint chip?” She pouts. 

“Duh.” 

She sniffles again. “Okay. Thank you.” 

“I’ll be back in a bit. Try to tone down the teenage angst until then, okay?” She hears him start to walk down the stairs. His footsteps stall. “And turn off that Glove-ski or whatever her name is. It’s giving your mother a headache.” He continues his trek. 

Casey does not turn the music off. In fact, she decides she will listen to the entire album because she feels like Mitski is the only one who can understand her right now. She lowers her head onto her pillow and closes her eyes, losing herself to the soft lull of Mitski’s voice. 

It would be fair to say that at this point Casey has a very poor conception of the passage of time. She thinks all of _Bury Me At Makeout Creek_ plays, but she’s not really sure if it’s the second time she’s heard “Last Words of a Shooting Star” tonight, or the third. 

When Casey hears a _thwunk_ somewhere in the vicinity of her room, she doesn’t look up to see who it could be. She assumes that it’s Doug back with the ice cream, though it seems to be a little early. Although, what the hell does she know.

“Just leave it outside the door,” Casey moans. 

Silence. Another _thwunk,_ this time louder. She looks up. The sound is not coming from her door. It’s coming from her window. Of course, the night she goes through a breakup, she has either a bird attempting to murder itself or a masked intruder attempting to kill her. Honestly, she’d take either one, just for the distraction. 

She lazily heaves up the window because nothing can possibly surprise her. 

Or at least she thinks so, right up until the moment when an entire package of Twizzlers nails her between the eyebrows. 

“What the fuck?” she screeches, looking down to see the monster who would do such a thing. 

Izzie gives her a sheepish smile from below. In her arms are several packages of Twizzlers, locked and loaded. 

“I think I’m gonna join the softball team. Pretty good throw, huh?” Izzie calls up. 

Casey snorts. “Yeah, you’d fit right in.” 

Izzie chucks another Twizzler package, of which Casey narrowly dodges. 

“Is there a reason you’re throwing YOUR favorite candy at my window? Should I let down my hair or something now? How is that romanti—” She stops, halting at the word. Casey clears her throat as the rest of it hangs uncomfortably between them.

It’s Izzie’s move. Casey watches her bites her lip.

“Well, it’s romantic that you know it’s my favorite candy,” She offers hesitantly, completing the word that Casey couldn’t and offering, somehow, an olive branch and a rose all at once.

Casey holds the package close to her heart. “Well my hair’s a little short, but I can let you in through the back door if you give me a second.”

Izzie’s excited grin is almost blinding, and Casey feels butterflies again. Maybe they can move past this. She readjusts her big t-shirt and old sweatpants while pausing the Mitski and heads from her bedroom for the stairs. 

…

They sit on Casey’s bed at a nearly uncomfortable distance apart and munch on Twizzlers in silence. Since their window conversation, they have exchanged less than ten words. They did need to be sneaky to get Izzie inside and upstairs, but Casey thought she would know what to say by now. Instead, she finds herself staring at Izzie’s collarbone that’s poking out of the neckline of her top. It’s a good collarbone, she thinks. A collarbone she would love to just… 

Casey chokes on her Twizzler and gasps for breath. 

Izzie freezes. “Are you okay?” Her voice is alarmed, ready to jump into action. 

Casey hacks once more as she swallows the pesky piece of candy. “I’m good,” she responds hoarsely. 

Izzie sighs. “Thank god. I failed the CPR unit in health class.” 

“You failed?” 

Izzie lowers her head to hide a blush. “Yeah. It was before I knew I was…” She gestures vaguely at her girlfriend. “You know.”

Casey nods. She does indeed know. 

“And it was freshman year and I got paired with this senior and she was super pretty and I panicked.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Panicked?”

“Let’s just say I’m the reason they use the practice dummies now and leave it at that.” 

“You know I can’t leave it at that.” 

“You’re going to have to because I’m not elaborating.” Izzie crosses her arms. 

The movement forces Casey’s gaze down Izzie’s chest where her arms lay entangled. She imagines them wrapped around her, strong yet soft. Helpless to her urges, she inches closer to Izzie. Their shoulders touch, and the other girl leans into it, accepting the offer. Although still troubled, she revels in the familiarity. What they have is so natural to the both of them. It’s effortless, if volatile. All they have to do is be near each other, and it’s magic again. 

In an attempt to stop herself from leaning in closer, Casey grins. “Next time we get drunk, I’ll weasel it out of you.”

Izzie rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah? I don’t know if I’ll be getting drunk for awhile. That wedding was a disaster.”

“I had fun. The two of us alone in a closet part was pretty fun. I’d do it again,” It’s a bold statement, especially in wake of everything that’s happened, but Casey can’t help herself.

She chuckles bitterly. “Next time you be the one that yacks. Then we’ll talk.” 

“Sure. I’ll throw up if a gorgeous girl will grind on me. I’ll do it twice if the girl is you.” Casey puckers her lips mockingly, poking Izzie lightly in the stomach.

Izzie swats at her face. “Shut the fuck up,” she says with a smile. Suddenly, her smile falls, and her expression grows serious. Her fingers absentmindedly reach for Casey’s, so much so she looks almost surprised when Casey intertwines them with her own. She shifts her weight uncomfortably on the bed, unsure of how to proceed. 

“I’m…” Her mouth falters. “I’m sorry.” 

Casey strokes her thumb across the back of her hand. “It’s okay.” 

Izzie stiffens. “It’s not. It’s really not. I’ve been dragging you up and down on this rollercoaster, but I don’t even fucking know what ride I’m on. It’s not fair. For either of us.” 

Her eyes go steely like they always do when she’s trying not to cry. Her vulnerability is never just vulnerability. She’s a girl who never realized her walls could have doors. If the opportunity arose to open them, she would refuse in the name of strength and tenacity: her two greatest traits, yet her two greatest flaws. They’re what Casey admires the most about her. Izzie’s grip on her hand tightens. 

“I have spent the past 16 years not knowing myself because I was too busy being this perfect, impenetrable rock for everyone. I couldn’t—I mean, I _can’t_ mess up because there are so many things riding on me, Casey. I need to be there for my brother, my sisters.” She snorts. “My own fucking mother.” A shiver courses through her body as though the very act of divulging this is causing her discomfort. Casey watches her, stunned. Izzie heaves in another breath.

“I dated Nate for years. I wasn’t even attracted to him. Not in the slightest. We never did anything. Barely grazed his dick.” She laughs in spite of herself. “But I did it because he was the perfect guy, and I needed to be perfect.” 

“Iz…” Casey starts. 

Izzie shakes her head. A tear rolls down her cheek, and Casey wants to reach out and hold her, but she knows she needs to say this. 

“And then… and then… you came along, and you fucked up, like, everything. I didn’t even know this was a thing I could feel, Case. I thought it was bullshit for other people with other lives. But then I saw you, and there was this... _fire._ At first, I thought I hated you.”

Casey nods, remembering the backhanded track practices that made her dread going to school every day. 

“I’m still sorry about that too.” She bites her lip in exasperation. “I have so much to apologize for.” 

Casey takes the moment to untangle their hands and wrap her arm around Izzie’s shoulder, pulling her closer. The rough canvas of Izzie’s bandaged knee rubs slightly against her own and Casey’s heart pangs, but she refocuses herself on Izzie and what her girlfriend needs to say.

“At first I thought I hated you. Then, we started talking, and I thought ,‘No, I just really like her. I just want to be best friends with her. But I hate her boyfriend and everytime I see them together I get physically repulsed.’ And the thing was—you _loved_ him, you really did. In a way that I _never_ felt about Nate. And I knew that. I thought...I thought I couldn’t compete with that.” Izzie glances across the room, her gaze filling with memory. 

“Then there was your birthday, and we almost kissed, and I knew. I knew this wasn’t going to be perfect, and it crushed me, Casey, because what was it all for?”

She moves her hands up from Casey’s waist, touching her sides and her stomach and her chest, desperate for any sort of contact. Like she wants to make sure Casey’s still there. Her body trembles into hers, and Casey feels the hot tears roll from wear Izzie’s forehead lay against her collarbone. They’re tangled like their hands were a minute ago, and it feels just as right.

“I just don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispers softly into her ear. “I used to know what I was doing, but I don’t anymore, and I’m so scared.” 

Casey strokes her hair. “I know.” 

They stay like that for a moment. Casey is surprised to find the uncertainty she felt when Izzie first sat atop her comforter has disappeared. Instead, she is filled with warmth and admiration. Maybe a little pride. She feels privileged to see Izzie like this, that Izzie let her. The events of the past few days were not their epilogue, but rather, the start of a new chapter. It just took a moment for them to figure it out. 

“Hey.” Casey pulls away slightly. Izzie looks at her, eyes red and her face flushed. She strokes her cheek, unable to stop herself. “I think it’s time for a forehead promise,” she continues. 

Izzie gives her a small smile in return. “You think?”

Casey nods then presses their foreheads together. “I Casey, forehead promise, you, Izzie, that…” She pauses, and Izzie watches her curiously. Leaning in closer, so their lips are nearly touching, Casey’s devilish grin returns. 

“... Is it obvious I just made this up?”

“Oh, fuck you.” 

Casey goes to snark back at her, but Izzie has already moved to close the gap between them. Their lips touch in a fiery embrace that reverberates through her entire body. Her stomach, hands, chest, even toes, are radiating heat. When Izzie said fire, this is what she meant. She wants every part of herself to be against her body. 

Their kiss deepens, and, suddenly, they’re horizontal, and Izzie is straddling her, and Casey is awestruck. Her hair had been pulled into a cute ponytail that has since disintegrated into a hair tie clutching at a few locks as the rest sprouts sweaty off her head. She watches her chest move up and down in quick breaths, much like it does after a hard run at practice. Izzie begins to tug off her shirt, and Casey is pulled from her reverie. 

“Woah, woah, woah.” 

Izzie shrinks away, practically throwing herself off of Casey. “Fuck. Do you not want to? I should have asked. I’m sorry. I should’ve—fuck. I’m sorry.” Fear is plastered across her face like an open wound. Casey grabs Izzie’s arm to stop her from practically leaping off the bed. 

“Izzie, stop—Izzie, stop apologizing!” Casey almost has to raise her voice and she is _flooded_ with relief when Izzie freezes. “I want to, I always wanted to, but… are you sure? I don’t want this to be another locker room thing. I want this to be...present.” She nods, proud of her ability to communicate. “Yeah, present. That’s the word.” The terror drains out of Izzie’s body. Clearly, she’s still got some stuff to work out.

Biting her lip again in the way that Casey finds so cute and sexy, Izzie maneuvers back to the same spot, straddling her stomach. She leans down, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m here this time. I want to do this.” Then, she frowns. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I just thought about, y’know, candles, but it’s fine—” She goes in to kiss her again, but Casey places a firm hand on her chest, right by her collarbone. It’s a strategic placement, not just that she wanted to touch it. Strategic. 

“Hold on.” Casey wriggles out from under her and scrambles off the bed and into the hallway with purpose. Before disappearing outside, she turns back to Izzie. “And stay just like that. Exactly like that. It’s a look.” 

“Will do.” Izzie smirks.

She returns with a gigantic lavender candle and a utility lighter in tow. Izzie hasn’t moved, instead choosing to boredly examine the poster’s on Casey’s wall. 

“Ta-da!” She showcases her findings. 

Izzie bursts out laughing, like full-bodied laughing. Her entire body doubles over, and she can hardly breathe. Casey rushes over to her, covering Izzie’s mouth and tossing the supplies aside. “Shhh! Elsa just went to bed, and I stole Sam’s headphones earlier so he’d probably tattle.” 

The laugh subsides into a mess of giggles and snorts. Izzie falls backward onto the bed. “You’re…” 

Casey gets up to light the candle. She turns to Izzie as she’s doing so. “Perfect?” She shrugs in a macho fashion. “Yeah, all that stuff you said earlier about not being perfect? Can’t relate. Because I am. Perfect, that is.” 

Izzie hurls a pillow at her, narrowly missing the lit candle. 

“ _Wow_.” Casey raises her hands in the air. “Are you trying to kill me? That was an attempt on my life.” 

“I’ll show you attempt on your life.” Izzie yanks off her top, and--

She’s not wearing a bra. Nope, no bra. Casey is at eye level with both of Izzie’s tits. Her jaw drops to floor, and she tries to look away but finds it impossible.

Izzie, at first confident, has now played all of her cards. Unsure of how to proceed, she kind of just sits there and tries to make her shirtlessness less obvious. An equally impossible task. Casey realizes she has been staring for what one might consider “too long.” 

Casey glances down at her own classy ensemble of “dirty sweatshirt she wore to help Doug paint her parent’s room” and “sweatpants that were either Sam or Evan’s” and realizes it would be best for her to remove clothes as well. She pulls off her pants in solidarity. 

She feels Izzie’s gaze rake down her legs, and the fire burns hot again. She walks toward the bed, her movements slow as molasses. When she reaches the mattress, she crawls toward Izzie, each step carefully chosen. Izzie breathes hard, and Casey senses the slight quivering of her small frame. Their chests touching, Izzie tries to capture her lips, but Casey dodges her, instead placing her mouth on her jutting collarbone. Surprised, Izzie gasps, which then melts into a moan as Casey gently applies pressure with her teeth. 

A quiet breeze flows in from the open window, cooling both of their backs. Outside, a summer symphony of crickets, cicadas, and the gentle pattering of rain blends itself into sweet harmony. Lavender lingers in the air. Casey wishes she could take a picture of a moment, to find some way to live in this space forever. She makes note to absorb as many details as she can before continuing her path down Izzie’s body. She spends a decent length of time nipping at the soft tissue on her chest. Izzie squirms, the sensation too much, while Casey presses her tongue to her nipple.

Izzie hisses something under her breath when Casey proceeds. She lifts her head. “What was that?”

Her fingers dig into the sheets. “N-nothing. Keep going. Please.” 

Casey isn’t one to ignore such polite manners. She starts to unbutton Izzie’s jeans, but it turns out that jeans are extremely difficult to take off, especially when both parties are sweaty. 

She grumbles incomprehensibly as they wrestle back and forth. Casey nearly falls off the bed after the last leg comes off. Izzie laughs at her expense, which Casey counters by sweeping her into a heavy kiss. Slowly inching her hand to the waistband of Izzie’s underwear, Casey is moderately shocked at her own smoothness. Doing these things with Izzie is easier than it was with Evan. She supposes it could be because she and Izzie are both girls and know a woman’s body best, or perhaps it is because it is Izzie, and everything is easier with her. Either way, her fingers slip underneath into the heat between her legs, and Izzie is wet. Really wet. 

“Damn,” whistles Casey. 

Izzie blushes. “Sorry.” 

Casey kisses her again. “ _Stop_ apologizing. You’re fucking gorgeous.” That line makes her shut up. Actually, it might be Casey pushing two fingers easily inside of her. She lets out a half squeal, half moan sort of noise that alerts Casey to the dampness in her underwear as well. She begins pumping her fingers in and out, the same method she uses on herself, and she is pleased when Izzie responds with a bite to Casey’s shoulder to cut her sounds off. “Oh, Casey…” she starts, then bites down again. Casey feels her muscles contract as a wave of pleasure washes over her. She takes a mental picture of Izzie laying there, mouth ajar, face flushed, forehead sticky, as she fucks her on her childhood bed. 

“Are you stopping?” Izzie asks, slightly distraught. She clears her throat and corrects herself. “Unless you want to, of course, that’s fine. It’s fine.” 

Casey shakes her head, endeared, then moves her fingers at a faster pace. Izzie gasps, head falling backwards onto the pillow. “I’m just looking at you,” she whispers into her ear. She tenses again, and Casey pushes in even deeper. 

“Fuck, Casey, I’m gonna--” 

Casey covers her mouth with her own to stop the strangled noise that comes out as her body quakes. Izzie bites her lip a little too hard, and she tastes blood, but she doesn’t mind. It’s pretty hot.

She keeps her fingers in motion until Izzie sinks into the mattress, breathless and exhausted. 

“Holy shit,” she says finally. 

“Good?” Casey asks, a little nervous. 

Izzie sits up, and her hair sticks to her forehead in a dramatic fashion. Casey fights the urge to laugh. “The only time I was ever fingered before this we had to stop because my vagina was so dry he cut me, and I started bleeding.” 

She cringes, all too familiar with the scenario. 

“So,” Izzie huffs, “Your turn?” 

Casey blinks. She had almost forgotten sex could be about both people having an orgasm. With Evan, it wasn’t that she didn’t come, she did. She was very into him. However, she never went into sex with the expectation it would happen, whereas, for him, it was usually the opposite. 

“Guess so.”

She doesn’t know who initiates this next phase. She does know that Izzie’s lips taste sweet like Twizzlers, and she never wants to stop kissing them. If the heat had faded in the aftermath of Izzie coming, it is back now full force. She grinds helplessly against her girlfriend. The tension in her pants is almost too much. 

“Take it off. The sweatshirt. Take it off.” Izzie tugs at the sleeves, desperate. She obliges immediately. It’s her turn to be embarrassed, but Izzie doesn’t let her. She drags her fingertips up and down the length of Casey’s spine, causing her to shiver. “Your back. At track practice. Sometimes I run behind you. So that I can watch you move.”

Casey brushes her arousal off with a chuckle. “I thought it was because you were slow.”

Then, in a surprisingly hot turn of events, Izzie rolls them over so she is straddling Casey again. “You wish, Newton.” 

With adept swiftness, she lobs off Casey’s gross sweatpants to paw at a pair of cute boyshorts. A moan escapes her lips as Izzie’s hand reaches and takes those off too, forgotten on the floor amidst the rest of their clothes. Izzie hooks her arms around Casey’s thighs and gently presses kisses to her navel. 

“And your legs too.” She shifts her mouth to her inside thighs, nibbling them, getting closer and closer to the heat at their apex. Her tongue grazes Casey’s clit as she takes a long lap. 

Casey nearly chokes, for the second time that night. 

Izzie chuckles, and she wonders where the embarrassed girl from a minute ago disappeared to. It’s the Izzie from the locker room again, confident and a little naughty, though thankfully lacking the fury that made Casey’s insides twist. 

She can’t even find it in herself to say anything, rendered speechless as Izzie licks and sucks. The only thing she comprehends is the spark inside her belly is growing. The blood in her ears is roaring louder. 

She feels Izzie smile. “You taste so good.” Another stroke, long and slow against her, sends Casey over the edge. Feeling Izzie accelerate, Casey lets go, hurtling into something fucking amazing. She bites down on the same spot Izzie bit before and knows it’s going to hurt like a bitch later. But, right now, in this moment, she can’t feel anything except the pleasure wracking her body. 

Eventually, the aftershocks flowing through her body subside, and Izzie pulls away, falling next to her on the bed. 

“How did you do that?” Casey manages to get out. 

Izzie glances at her out of the corner of her eye. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

She leans in so her lips are grazing Casey’s ear. “I watched lesbian porn.” 

Casey nearly chokes for the _third_ time that night. 

Izzie frowns. “What? I wanted to do research.” 

“You’re a fucking nerd.” 

“Am not.” Izzie turns on her other side to face away from Casey in mock annoyance. She pulls her back toward her, wrapping her arms around her waist. 

“You are because my nerdy brother recommended I do the exact same thing. That’s how I know you’re a nerd,” she whispers then kisses Izzie’s cheek. 

“Look,” Izzie attempts to defend, but Casey turns her over again and plants a giant kiss on her mouth. 

“It’s okay. I love you anyway.” It slips off her tongue easier than she thought it would, reminiscent of most aspects of their relationship. 

Izzie smiles her widest smile yet. “I love you too.” 

Casey snuggles into her neck. “Thought so.” They lay there for a beat, still in each other’s warmth before Casey stirs. “Where are the Twizzlers? I’m fucking starving.” Izzie giggles and motions to Casey’s desk where the licorice sits next to the still-burning lavender candle. When Casey stands, though, she doesn’t turn to the desk. Her eyes rest gently on her girlfriend, sprawled in naked comfort on her bedspread. It may have taken them a long time to get here, but, man, was it worth it. 

…

Weirdly enough, Doug had to drive to 4 different stores before he found mint chip ice cream. It was the strangest thing. Every single place was out. When he approached an employee to motion to the ice cream section, they would merely shake their heads and go back to sweeping or restocking shelves. 

Eventually, he stumbled upon a decrepit gas station that had a lone half gallon of Turkey Hill mint chip. It had taken him over two hours to find one stupid god damn ice cream. The things he does for his daughter. Next time he goes to Home Depot, he’s forcing her to come along. She will not get out of it this time. No, siree. 

He grumbles this to himself as he trudges up their front steps and yanks open the door. He barely notices a pair of shoes that are not his daughter’s or wife’s sitting near the bottom of the stairs, but he does notice, because he’s _that_ good. 

Picking up the pair of worn Converse, he recognizes them as none other than Izzie The Best Friend Turned Girlfriend Whatever Her Last Name Is’s shoes and knows that some trouble is afoot. On the bright side, maybe they aren’t broken up anymore. On the dark side, it seems as though his ice cream expedition has been for naught. 

He places them back down and ambles up the stairs with purpose. No boyfriends _or_ girlfriends are allowed at the house after 10 pm. There is no discrimination at the Gardner home. They are accepting people. 

Stalking to Casey’s door, ice cream still in hand, he begins to wonder if he wants to open it. Strange sounds emerge from behind the wood, and it’s starting to seem like a terrible idea.

He thinks of a lecture Elsa had given him the day before about rules. “What would Elsa do? Or WWED, for short,” she had instructed. 

He purses his lips. Elsa would probably burst in, catching the two teens in the act. Act of what? Doug really doesn’t want to know. 

His hand moves closer to the knob, but a new noise makes him stop. It’s a moan. It’s definitely a moan. He recoils back, nearly stumbling over. 

He then decides to play a new game called “What would Doug Do? Or WWDD, for short.” Well, he decides, Doug would go back to the kitchen, make himself a bowl of ice cream, watch a little bit of the Yankee game, then fall asleep on the couch. That’s what Doug would do. 

He nods. Sounds like a pretty good plan. “What would Elsa do?” is for the day time, when he can use her as a shield for Casey’s snark but still come off as a good parent. He promises himself they’ll yell at the two girls in the morning. Or something like that.

Heading back down the stairs, he figures, for now, it’s best to let teenagers do what they do and deal with it later. 

Besides, he’s got ice cream.

**Author's Note:**

> This literally has taken Anna and I five months to write, so I hope you felt it wrapped things up well. We needed to finish it so we could work on Killing Eve stuff!! Keep an eye out for our "comic cuntllaborations" on our tumblrs (@villanever and @theatrelesbabe)! Anyway, that's all. Lots of love and signing off.


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